The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

“I’ll have a sweet tea and the chicken tacos,” I say to the waiter. He nods and turns to Julian for his order.

“And I’ll have the chicken tacos and a glass of red wine,” he says, handing over his menu. The waiter leaves us and as if my expression demands an explanation, Julian replies, “You’re on the clock, not me.”

I laugh. “No, it’s fine. Just know I’m not responsible for what you say while intoxicated and therefore, what ends up in my article,” I tell him, tossing a napkin over my lap.

“Fair enough,” he says, leaning into the table. The simple movement draws attention to his wrists and the bracelets that cover them. My lips part and I drop my eyes to my hands clasped beneath the table. My wrists too are shrouded in bracelets.

“So, um,” I start racking my brain for article-related questions. “Sorry, I . . . I lost my train of thought.”

He smiles and his eyes pierce mine through hooded dark lashes. “It’s okay, Emma. I won’t tell if we take a break from article talk. I mean, a girl has got to eat.”

“I guess,” I say, moving my eyes from him to the stage beneath us.

“So, what made you decide to work in a record store, if you don’t mind me asking?” he says, drawing my attention back to him.

“Oh, um. Well, to be honest, it was more out of necessity than desire,” I admit. “When I first moved to New Orleans for college, I didn’t know anyone, and I didn’t have much help from my parents. I couldn’t afford to live on campus, and I honestly couldn’t afford to live in the Marigny either, but it was safer than most areas I could afford,” I explain. “But it wasn’t long until I was drowning,” I say, moving my eyes from him to my clasped hands.

“My choices were to either suck up my pride and give in to my parents, which meant moving back home and never thinking of doing anything for myself again, or find a way to make ends meet. That’s when Mr. Turnip spoke to Mr. Edgar, and that was that. I’m sure in the short amount of time you spent with Mr. Edgar you can see how inspirational he is, how he’s one with the music,” I say with a smile. “He and Mr. Turnip allowed me to be one with myself and with that came a respect and appreciation for this city and the arts, an even greater one than I already had,” I say with a nod.

“So, basically, before Mr. Turnip and Mr. Edgar, you were uncultured,” Julian says in all seriousness.

“What? No!” I say, my voice rising in pitch. His flat lips break into a smile at my outburst. “No, I was—I was sheltered, at times I’d even use the word trapped. I used to think I’d never amount to anything but someone’s daughter and then someone’s wife and that scared me,” I reveal. “So, I ran. But I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been running for so long, I don’t even know what I’m running towards anymore,” I admit.

“Hmm,” Julian muses. “And here I thought you had it all figured out.”

“No one has it all figured out. Some people are just better at making it seem that way,” I admit.

He nods and thanks the waiter as our drinks are delivered. I sip at my sweet tea and he at his wine. The small distraction gives me a moment to contemplate why I’m revealing so much of myself to him—another question I don’t have an answer to.

He opens his mouth to ask me another question, but I beat him to the punch. I’ve got to get things back on track.

“You mentioned earlier that you volunteered to come to New Orleans and that you aren’t fond of being Mr. Cole,” I say. “Does that mean the Lucid project is just a distraction for you, or do you think you’ll be here long term?” I ask. “Helping manage the store, after the renovations are done,” I clarify.

Julian smiles. “Is this for you or your article?”

“Just answer the question.”

He takes another sip of his wine and . . .

“I hope to be in the wonderful city of New Orleans for as long as possible, working hand-in-hand with my employees, and ensuring total customer satisfaction,” he says in his “Mr. Cole” voice. “But, off the record,” he says. My interest is peaked.

“I like the change of pace and scenery,” he admits. “Maybe I am finding myself distracted in New Orleans, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to rush back to LA when the honeymoon is over.”

His words light my insides on fire, and I can’t tell if it feels good or not.

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” I say.

“How so?” he asks, leaning closer.

“Two orders of chicken tacos,” the waiter says, placing two warm plates between us.

“Thanks,” we both say.

Once again, we’re left alone, but this time I don’t feel the need to control the conversation. I do, however, feel the need to stuff my face.

“Look, no offense, but I’ve been dying for these since last night, so it may be ten minutes before I’m the respectable Emma you’ve briefly come to know,” I say, mixing the Pico into my rice.

“Ha,” he laughs. “Well, I look forward to getting to know the not-so-respectable Emma and seeing what these tacos are about.”

“They’re best dipped in sour cream and a pop of jalapeño in each bite,” I tell him as I suck down my first bite.

“Oh, I’m lactose intolerant,” he says. I raise an eyebrow and watch as he discards the cheese and sour cream from his plate. “What?” he asks, noticing me staring.

“You poor soul,” I tell him, before taking another bite.

Julian swaps the dairy products for Pico, peppers, and guacamole and moans in agreement that these are in fact the best tacos he’s ever had.

“I told you,” I say.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel at ease. Maybe it’s the tacos. Maybe